


Hide and Seek

by cyphernaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Discipline, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:07:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hodgepodge response to several meme prompts.  Sherlock is insecure after the birth of the baby, feeling that John and Mary no longer need him in their life.</p><p>Ageplay, but not in any universe I've written in before.  This is a little harsher than most of my other ageplay fics, but nothing too extreme.  Mostly angst and fluff, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry his first chapter is so short, but the next scene is incredibly long and I didn't want to break it across chapters. Sherlock will be more consistently little in later chapters.

The car ride to John's neighbourhood had been excruciating, and not just because Sherlock had yet again been crammed into the back seat. John had been furious, apparently pulled from a family outing that had involved some extensive planning on his part. He stormed into his home and out of Sherlock's sight, and Sherlock turned his attention onto Mary, formulating a plan to elicit her sympathies in the inevitable conflict that would follow.

He got so far as opening his mouth.

“No,” Mary said flatly, staring down his reflection in the mirror.

“I haven't-”

“No. Stay there, and keep quiet.”

The ease with which she could push him down into the headspace never failed to catch him off guard. He shrunk back into the seat and began to pick at his fingers. He would have lain down, but their stupid baby in the stupid car seat was in his way. He scowled at her stupid little face then turned back to the window. John was coming back with enough overnight bags for his entire family, including myriad supplies for Stupid Face.

Sherlock opened the car door as John began to throw everything into the boot. “You can't be serious.”

“Mary and I are staying the night, since you obviously can't be trusted to stay on your own without doing something monumentally stupid.” John shut the boot and rounded on him, but Sherlock was undaunted, pushing himself out of the car so that he could take full advantage of his height.

“It's not your flat any more. You can't-”

The slap took him by surprise. He heard it first, then Mary's gasp as the hot sting swelled across his right cheek. His eyes watered from the shock and pain, and he realized he was sitting again, John's stern face blurring above him.

“Mary and I are staying the night. Is that clear?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling small, scared, and safe as he drew back into the seat. Mary had turned around to look at him, but he couldn't meet her eyes, not with John still hovering over him by the open door.

“Don't phone Mycroft,” he mumbled, hating himself for capitalizing on how pathetic he must look to the both of them. “Please.”

“All right,” John sighed, “but you and I are going to deal with this.”

* * *

Dealing with it apparently did not mean talking about it on the way to Sherlock's flat. In fact, he was shushed several times before he finally gave up and contented himself to glare out the window. John had never had a problem rowing in transit before, so Sherlock could only deduce that John was trying to avoid shouting in front of the sleeping baby. He ran the back of his index finger over the cheek that John had struck. It wasn't hot to the touch, but the warmth from the slap lingered in his mind.

Soon enough they were walking the seventeen steps up to the flat, Sherlock having grudgingly accepted a bag that wasn't his, filled to the brim with nappies and creams and other paraphernalia of parenthood.

“I'll put her in your room,” Mary said to John, then continued up the stairs.

Part of Sherlock wanted to offer to carry the bag up with her, and part of him wanted to kick it down the staircase. He stood in silence, until John grabbed him by the elbow and steered him to the sofa.

“You sit there while I search the flat.”

“There's nothing here!” He stood stubbornly next to the coffee table.

“You showed up high to a crime scene. From the looks of you, I'd say you went straight there from a drug den.”

“Because that's where the drugs are! If I'd had them here, I wouldn't have needed to go there.”

John's face darkened, and for a moment, Sherlock was afraid John would smack him again. He sat down quickly, bringing his knees up to his chin and hugging them tightly. “It was just for a case,” he muttered. “There's nothing here.”

“That's what you said last year, and what did I tell you then?” John was pointing at him, in full lecture mode, and Sherlock was apparently expected to deliver half the lecture himself.

“You said a great many things. In fact, I remember you yammering on for-” Sherlock stopped as John took a step toward him. “You said there's no good reason to do drugs.”

“And what else?” John prompted.

“You said there'd be consequences if I did it again.”

“That's right. And one of those consequences is that I search your flat, so you're going to sit right there, _quietly_ , until I'm satisfied you don't have any drugs hidden away in here.”

John was wasting his time, but Sherlock bit his tongue and curled on his side on the sofa, letting John John rummage through his things in a futile effort to find what wasn't there. Soon Mary joined Sherlock on the sofa, and Sherlock inched up until his head was resting on her thigh.

“Daddy's cross with me,” he murmured into her jeans, and she began to stroke her fingers through his hair.

“He's scared you're going to do something to hurt yourself, baby.”

Sherlock flinched at the endearment. “You have a real baby now. He should leave me alone.”

“You're still ours.”

“He smacked my face.”

Mary hadn't liked it either, Sherlock knew, but she and John had a nasty habit of presenting a united front to him, even when they disagreed.

“I'm sure you can talk about that with him tonight.” 

It wasn't the sympathetic reaction Sherlock had hoped for, and he wrapped his arm around her leg. “No, he's going to smack me again.”

Mary hummed, unconcerned or unbelieving, and rubbed up and down Sherlock's back. “You need to talk to us. You know we love you.”

Of course Sherlock knew that they loved him, whatever that meant. He also knew that love wasn't a magical property that miraculously fulfilled one's every need. In fact, it seemed to make most people utterly incapable of making any sort of rational decisions in their own self interest. He huffed his disdain for the entire concept as John emerged empty-handed from the kitchen. 

“I didn't find anything.”

“Because there's nothing to find,” Sherlock mouthed off from the security of Mary's embrace.

John ignored Sherlock entirely. “There's no food either. Mary, would you mind running to the shop?”

Sherlock tightened his grip on Mary's leg. If John was sending her away, it was only because he knew he knew she'd be uncomfortable with what he had planned, meaning Sherlock would be more than uncomfortable.

Mary had apparently come to the same conclusion, and she lay a protective hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “If it's really an addiction...”

Sherlock jerked up, slapping her hand from his body. “I'm not addicted!”

Sighing, Mary ran her fingers through Sherlock's hair one last time, then kissed him on the cheek. “All right, I'm off to the shop.”

“No, Mummy!” Sherlock cried, suddenly regretting his earlier indignation. “I want to go with you.”

“I'll be back soon, baby.” She kissed him again, then gave John the same treatment. They smiled at each other, saccharine-sweet until Sherlock turned into the sofa and shut out their inanities. 

“Sherlock.” John's voice startled him from his musings. He turned over to see John standing by the table, pen and paper in hand. “You're going to sit here, and you're going to write, 'There is no excuse for drug use.' one hundred times, and if I have to drag you to this chair, you're going to be one sorry little boy.”

Sherlock sighed. It appeared that the inanities had just begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not indicative of the speed at which subsequent chapters will be posted.

Writing lines was boring, and after a while painful as well. Sherlock rested his head on the table for the last dozen or so. John was still watching him, frowning, but the intensity of his earlier disapproval had lessened. Most likely he'd only given Sherlock the lines to keep him occupied while the two of them had a chance to calm down. Sherlock was certainly subdued as he finished out the set. He shook out his hand, then began to rub the pain away. John didn't even look at the lines before sitting beside Sherlock and taking his hand, expertly massaging it. It felt good enough that Sherlock let him, despite his continued resentment.

“Sherlock, I'm a doctor. If you're struggling with an addiction, I can help you.”

Sherlock scowled, but left his hand in John's. “I've already told you. I did for a case.”

“So you made a deliberate choice to shoot up with heroin, just to help you solve a case?”

“Yes.”

“That was not a good choice, and I'm sure I made that very clear to you the last time this happened.” As it wasn't a question, Sherlock felt no need to answer. He stared at his lap until John dropped his hand to lift Sherlock's chin until their eyes met. “You disobeyed me and put yourself in danger.”

Sherlock turned away, hearing John's implied sentence. He didn't want a spanking, especially not from someone he hadn't even seen for the past two months. “It's not fair. You were gone for a long time and I didn't know you'd come back for this.”

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and guided him across his lap. “Yeah, you did.”

Gripping the legs of the chair, Sherlock tried to be angry at John. It should have been easy. After all, the man had the audacity to come back from a two month absence and tell Sherlock what he did and didn't know. Instead, though, Sherlock lay over John's lap worried about how angry John might be at _him_ , hoping the punishment might set things right, and ashamed of the weakness that hope revealed.

John landed five firm smacks that left Sherlock's bum warm and tingling and not much else. When it was clear the spanking as over, Sherlock pushed himself back up, but John caught his elbow before he could go too far. Laying his other hand on Sherlock's cheek, John forced eye contact again.

“From now on, you answer my calls, you answer my texts, and you don't give me a single reason to even suspect you might be doing drugs. Is that clear?”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock nodded, and John seemed satisfied with the non-verbal response, finally letting his disciplinary persona slip slightly as he hugged Sherlock to him.

Sherlock resisted the affection, half-heartedly trying to pull himself away from the comfort. “No, you already did what you came for. Just go back to your house and your wife and your stupid baby.”

“None of that, now.” John began to pet Sherlock's hair, redoubling his ministrations until Sherlock finally relaxed against him. “You smell like smack head.”

“I need a bath,” Sherlock muttered into John's shoulder. “And an incinerator for these clothes.”

“You want me to give you one?” John offered. “A bath, I mean.”

Sherlock shrugged. It didn't matter who bathed him, he supposed, as long as he got clean.

“Come on, then.”

He followed John to the loo, where John started the water and began to strip him of his clothing with practised ease. 

“Do you want bubbles, then?” John asked. He was being so nice that Sherlock wanted to punch him in the face until they could fight again. Instead, he meekly allowed John to help him into the tub, then waited silently as John poured in the bubble bath. “Is the temperature all right?”

The temperature was perfect. Sherlock huffed and looked toward the tiles.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.” John's voice took on a slight edge. “Is the temperature all right?”

“You don't care how I feel. At least not since your daughter was born.”

John sighed and soaped up a flannel, then ran it across Sherlock's back. “I texted you. I phoned you. You never answered.”

“And you didn't care.”

“Of course I cared. I thought you didn't want to talk to me, and I was respecting your choice.”

“You only came back to shout at me and smack me in the face. I'm overwhelmed by the magnitude of your respect for me.”

The flannel dropped from John's hand, and Sherlock prepared for him to shout back, but he finally pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry I didn't come look for you earlier.”

Sherlock ignored the apology. As usual, John was missing the point. He rinsed out the flannel and held it to Sherlock.

“Let's get your hair washed. Hold the flannel over your eyes.”

As soon as Sherlock did so, John wet his hair and began to massage the shampoo through it. Sherlock began to relax despite himself, victim of the darkness, the warm water, and John's soothing touch.

“Do you want to tell me about the case you're working on?” John's voice was soothing and conciliatory, and Sherlock had to remind himself not to fall prey to it.

“No.”

“Really? It sounded very important.”

“It is, which is why I don't want to tell you.”

“Ah.” Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice. “Keep your eyes covered. I need to rinse out the shampoo.”

Pushing the flannel tightly over his eyes, Sherlock tried to push the rest of himself down, too. As the water flowed over his head, he held his body as still and quiet as he wished his emotions could be.

“That's my boy,” John murmured, wiping off the excess water with his hand.

That was all it took for the dam to burst. Sherlock tried to contain his tears with the flannel, but his sobs were shaking his whole body, and John soon took it away to search his face.

“What's the matter? Did it get in your eyes?”

Sherlock shook his head, incapable of any more sophisticated method of communication. Before he knew it, the tub was draining, his daddy was standing him up and drying him off, then kissing his face and leading him to his bed room, dressing him in his pyjamas. Sherlock let it happen to him, following docilely as he inwardly clung to the last shred of himself that belonged to him alone.

“Time for a cuddle, I think,” John said.

They lay together, Sherlock getting his breathing back under control as John pet his damp hair and kissed him softly.

“Sherlock, did you ignore Daddy's texts so that I'd have to come looking for you?”

Sherlock didn't answer. It had always been easier to justify his behaviour with logic than to analyse it with self-reflection. Besides, seeing his choices in such a pedestrian light irritated him.

“And did you get high before meeting Lestrade so that he'd phone me and I'd have to come get you?”

John often took silence as an admission of guilt. He kissed Sherlock's forehead. “That was not a good choice.”

“Don't spank me again.”

“I'm not.” John cuddled him closer. “We've had enough of that for today, I think.”

Sherlock had had enough punishment for a lot longer than one day.

“You know, you don't have to manipulate me to spend time with you. When I phoned you, it was because I wanted to see you.”

There lay the difference. John wanted Sherlock, and Sherlock needed John. He'd been furious when John had allowed him to run away, and desperate enough to try anything to get him back. He'd succeeded, though not in the exact way he had intended.

“You smacked my face and you shouted at me,” he sniffled into John's shirt.

“I'm sorry I lost my temper. I was scared.”

John hadn't seem scared. He had seemed angry. “It hurt, and it hurt my feelings.”

“I'm sorry.” John's face and voice softened further, and he smoothed his hand over Sherlock's hair. “I thought you didn't want to be my little boy any more, and I didn't know what to do.”

“You're supposed to take care of me.”

“I know. I was scared I'd lost you, Sherlock, and I didn't know how to get you back. I'm so sorry.” He ran the backs of his fingers gently across the cheek he had smacked, then kissed it softly. “Mummy and I will discuss the details when she gets back, but we're going to be keeping a much closer eye on you, little boy. Is that clear?”

It should have sounded like a threat, and Sherlock's terrible behaviour of late certainly warranted one. John's words soothed him, though, as he imagined the constant attention and care. He felt younger than he ever had, nestled safely in the strict boundaries that John and Mary set for him. On impulse, he stuck his thumb in his mouth and began to suck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to embalmer56 for the wonderful and patient beta on this chapter. Hopefully there will be no magical transportation across the sitting room this time around! :D

An utterly inhuman screech wrenched Sherlock from the peaceful state he'd been drifting though since John had lulled him to sleep. He huddled underneath his blankets and pillows, struggling to block out the noise, until he finally sat up, defeated. The windows were dark, and the smell of dinner permeated the flat. He pulled on his dressing gown and stumbled to the kitchen, just as the baby's banshee cries ceased, and found John at the hob.

He was making spaghetti, an acceptable choice, though Sherlock's nose crinkled at the spinach and carrots that they'd chosen to accompany the dish. It seemed redundant, especially in light of the salad that was already sitting on the table. Sherlock reserved judgement, though, until he found out how much of the meal he'd be expected to eat. He levelled a groggy glare at the banshee's father.

“Your baby's too loud.”

“Yeah, she's got quite the pair of lungs, she has. Mummy's feeding her now, though, and she'll be back to sleep after that.”

With John unconcerned with his predicament, Sherlock wandered out to the sitting room to see Mary feeding the baby on the sofa. She smiled at him and gave the seat beside her a welcoming pat. “You're awake.”

“Your baby was too loud.”

Mary laughed. “That's how she lets us know she's hungry.”

Sherlock sat down on her right, the side of her that wasn't already occupied by a pile of the baby's things, and tucked his feet up under him. “It's annoying.”

Humming ambiguously, Mary traced her finger across the shell of her annoying baby's ear. “I'm glad she has you to set a good example of how to ask politely. You're such a good boy, Sherlock.”

They sat in silence as Sherlock wavered between being the good boy that Mary described and a much naughtier version of himself, who just might strop if she didn't start paying better attention to him. Whilst he mulled over the possibilities, he popped his thumb into his mouth, but Mary pulled it right back out.

“You'll ruin your teeth, baby.”

It was the first Mary had been concerned with his teeth in months. Sherlock stuck his thumb back into his mouth and leaned his head against her shoulder, and this time she let him do it.

She had bigger concerns, apparently, adjusting her clothes and her annoying baby until it was upright against her left shoulder. She rubbed and pat at its back until it let out a loud, disgusting burp.

Mary murmured encouragement to the baby, and Sherlock cuddled closer, carefully smashing Mummy's leg when he adjusted his knee.

“Oi! Sherlock, that hurt!” she said, and Sherlock bit down on a satisfied smirk, unconcerned with any potential consequences. Mary hadn't punished him since he'd been shot last year. At first he'd thought it was because he'd been in hospital, but even after he'd returned home, she'd been overly indulgent.

“Sorry, Mummy. I just want to cuddle you.” He kissed her cheek in demonstration, and she peered over at him, scanning his face.

Sure enough, she eventually just kissed him back, ignoring his misbehaviour. “Let me put Sarah down, first.”

He pouted, but disentangled his limbs from her, allowing her to stand and walk up the stairs with the baby. He shoved the baby's things off his sofa so that he could have a quick lie-down before she came back.

“What was that?” John asked, coming in from the kitchen. Sherlock didn't need to answer, as Daddy quickly noticed the mess of nappies, powders, and other baby supplies scattered across the floor. He knelt to shove them back into the bag they'd started in. “Go wash your hands, love.”

“No, Mummy and I are going to have a cuddle.”

John set the bag on the coffee table and faced Sherlock. “Dinner first, then you can cuddle.”

“But the baby got cuddles,” he whinged.

“And she ate dinner first, didn't she, little boy?” When Sherlock only shrugged, Daddy's face hardened. “Sherlock, go wash your hands, and consider yourself lucky we're not having a conversation about why the baby's things were all over the floor just now.”

Defeated, Sherlock went to wash his hands as Daddy had asked. By the time he was sitting down, Mary was back, and he clung to the waistband of her jeans as she passed him.

“I want to sit next to Mummy.”

“And I want to sit next to you,” she smiled down at him.

The kitchen table was small enough that everyone got to sit close to everyone, with Daddy across from Sherlock, putting more vegetables on Sherlock's plate than he would have chosen for himself. Sherlock ignored them in favour of his pasta.

“Mummy, look, I'm a baby!” He grabbed a handful of spaghetti and shoved it into his mouth.

Daddy's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile and knew he shouldn't. He turned his back to both Sherlock and Mummy as he stood to grab and wet some kitchen paper. When he came back to wipe down Sherlock's hands, his face was back under control.

“Use your cutlery, Sherlock. You know better.”

“No, I don't. I'm a baby, remember?” He reached for the plate again, but Mummy pulled it away.

“Do you want me to feed you like a baby?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. While Daddy carefully studied his own food, Mummy cut Sherlock's pasta up into little pieces. She scooped up a spoonful and brought it to his lips, which he eagerly opened, eating just like a little baby. They repeated the process several times, until Mummy spooned up some carrots instead.

“No, Mummy, I don't want carrots. I only want spaghetti.”

Mummy gave him a sympathetic smile. “Babies don't get to choose what they eat, Sherlock. They have to eat whatever their mummies and daddies give them.”

“For that matter, they can't talk, either,” Daddy added.

Sherlock bit his lip, considered whether he wanted to keep being a baby under the circumstances. As he weighed his options, the real baby started crying.

“I'll get her,” Daddy said, standing up and setting his napkin on the table. Sherlock watched him leave with a frown.

“I think I'll put some cinnamon sugar on these carrots, and see whether my baby likes them,” Mummy suddenly said. She rummaged around in the cupboards until she found what she was looking for. After mashing up the carrots with the sugar, she held another spoonful to Sherlock's lips. He reluctantly tried them, and found that they weren't entirely revolting. At least they distracted him from the sound of crying baby, which was getting more irritating as it got closer to them.

“Where are the baby wipes?” John appeared suddenly in the doorway, crying baby in hand.

“They're with the nappies,” Mummy answered, dropping Sherlock's spoon. “Can't you find them?”

“They're not there.”

“Just a minute, Sherlock.” Mummy said, standing up from the table.

Sherlock glowered as he watched Mummy go to join Daddy with the stupid, loud baby. If Mummy wasn't going to feed him, he decided that he could feed himself. He grabbed his plate from where Mary had been feeding him, then held it out over the floor and accidentally let it fall from his hands. Miraculously, it remained intact, though the food scattered around him in a chaotic and incriminating pattern.

“Oops.” He looked up guilelessly at Mummy, who'd spun around at the noise.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mummy took in the mess. “What happened?”

Daddy, on the other hand, was less than sympathetic. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He saw you leaving, picked up the plate, and threw it on the floor.” Daddy's face held an ominous darkness, and Sherlock was unwilling to deny the accusation as Daddy clenched his jaw tightly. “Here, you take Sarah and I'll sort this one out.”

While Sherlock remained frozen in place, Daddy handed the baby, still crying, off to Mummy, and grabbed the kitchen roll. Sherlock leaned back at Daddy's approach, but he just handed Sherlock the kitchen roll and pointed to the mess. “Wipe that up and put it in the bin, please.”

Sherlock obeyed, and Daddy helped him to wet a bit more paper so he could properly wipe off the floor and table legs that the sauce had spattered onto. After everything was clean and dry, Sherlock remained kneeling on the floor, the last bit of paper crumpled in his hand, unwilling to face whatever would come next.

John squat down beside him and put a hand on the side of his face. “Are you still hungry?”

Sniffling, he shook his head slightly. Daddy didn't say anything else, just pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock threw himself into it. He had been promised cuddles after dinner, after all.

* * *

The rest of the evening had gone as well as Sherlock had hoped. Mummy and Daddy had allowed Sherlock to conduct an experiment after dinner, and the baby hadn't bothered them once. Sherlock had finally been tucked up with kisses and cuddles.

It wasn't so easy to fall asleep, not with the thought of Mummy and Daddy upstairs with the baby and Sherlock still in his room. He dozed for a few hours, then lay in bed restlessly, unwilling to risk Mummy and Daddy's wrath if he roamed about the flat in the middle of the night.

When it became too much to bear, Sherlock rose and made his way to the staircase. Other than the occasional sound from the street, everything was quiet. He crept up, listening at the doorway before slipping through and looking about the room.

Mummy and Daddy were sleeping peacefully in the bed, with the baby's travel cot close at hand on the floor. Without a sound, Sherlock padded over to the cot and knelt down beside it. The baby was sleeping, just as boring as she had been when awake, but marginally less irritating. He hovered over her, studying her soft features. People said that she looked like Daddy, but she looked just like a normal baby to Sherlock, with nothing of the spirit that made John himself. Sherlock felt an urge to trace out the lines of her face with his finger, but the risk of setting off another screaming spell kept him from it.

As if she had read his mind, the baby began to stir. Sherlock sat back on his haunches and watched as she quickly worked herself up to an ear piercing screech that was certain to pull John and Mary from sleep.

Within seconds, Mummy was kneeling opposite him by the cot and cradling the baby in her arms, shushing and cooing at her until the screams subsided.

“I didn't do anything to her,” Sherlock explained quickly.

Mummy smiled over at him and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze with her free hand. “I know, baby. She's just hungry.”

“I'm hungry, too,” Sherlock frowned at her, “and you only care about feeding the baby, even though I waited quietly for you to wake up and she screamed at you.”

“Little boys who throw their dinner on the floor get hungry in the middle of the night,” she scolded softly.

Before he could properly glower at her, she reached out for him. “Let's go down to the kitchen and get you something.”

They walked there hand in hand, where Mummy pulled out some biscuits for Sherlock, even before she sat down to feed the baby. Sherlock crammed two biscuits into his mouth and pushed his chair right next to Mummy's so that he could lean on her while he ate. Her tee-shirt was soft, and she smelled like sleep. 

“I'm sleepy, Mummy,” he whispered into her shoulder, and she laughed.

“Me, too.” She jostled him as she moved around, and Sherlock was ready to argue with her about being sent to bed, when she pulled him up to stand with her. “Let's go cuddle on the sofa.”

She slung a tea towel over her shoulder, patting the baby as they made their way to the sofa. Sherlock made himself comfortable, wrinkling his nose just slightly as the baby let out another burp and cuddling Mummy as best he could with the baby in the way.

He was reminded of his time in hospital, when Mummy would sneak to his room in the middle of the night, sometimes dressed as hospital staff, but usually just as herself, dodging nurses to bring him some edible food or read him a story. Sometimes, in later months, he would put his hand on her belly and feel the baby kick. It was strange to think that it was the same baby that Mummy was holding her arms. 

“Do you want to hold her?” Mummy asked.

Sherlock shrugged, eyeing the baby suspiciously as Mummy placed it carefully in his arms, situating them to her satisfaction. Sherlock studied her just as he had before, but this time she was animate, squirming in his arms and turning toward his finger as he stroked it down her cheek. 'Rooting reflex', his mind supplied.

“Look, she likes you.”

In fact, she was making the same boring face she always did, wriggling her arms around aimlessly and randomly darting her gaze about the room. “She's not even looking at me.”

“Touch her palm.”

He did, knowing that she would have no choice but to grasp it, the hapless victim of another primitive reflex. He didn't anticipate the smile that spread across her face, though.

“See? She just wanted you to play with her.” 

Sherlock bit his lip and tried to reclaim his finger, but the baby held tight. It was a strange definition of 'play', but she did seem to be enjoying herself. She was bearable when she was quiet, at least.

“I'm glad she finally got to meet you. She's going to learn a lot from you, Sherlock.” Mummy reached around him to nudge his head over, so it could rest on her shoulder while she kissed his hair. “Our good boy. I missed you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to embalmer56 for her fantastic beta skills.

Sherlock woke in his own bed, though he couldn't quite remember how he'd got there. Mary was sleeping beside him, and the travel cot lay near the foot of the bed. He heard the shower from the other side of the wall, and he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Mary rolled over, but otherwise didn't react.

The pleasant heroin fog had lifted almost completely, and observations and deductions sped furiously through Sherlock's brain as the previous day's experiences were reprocessed. John and Mary had clearly brought enough luggage to stay for another few days, even though the running water in the next room meant John was up early enough that he must have a shift at the surgery. John would be leaving them for the day, then, and Mary would be constantly occupied with the baby, if the dark circles under her eyes were any indication. Sherlock glared at the baby as it lay in the peaceful security that surely came with knowing all those around you would hop to at your slightest need.

The sounds of the shower stopped, and Sherlock called out for his daddy. Mummy stirred at his shout and gave his knee a comforting pat as she shushed him. Sherlock ignored her and listened for Daddy's footsteps, which gave him a short warning before Daddy appeared in a dressing gown, towelling dry his hair.

“So this is where my family's been hiding. You thought you'd invite Mummy to your room?”

Mary woke fully at their interaction, and Sherlock slid down to hug her while giving Daddy a pointed look. “Mummy's nice. She didn't make me write lines, and she didn't spank me.”

The tacit accusation only made Daddy smile indulgently as he sat down beside them, running his hand across each of their shoulders, in turn. “Are you still cross with Daddy, then?”

Sherlock said nothing, just held Mummy tighter and peered up through his eyelashes. Finally, Daddy put a warm hand on Sherlock's cheek and forced eye contact, his expression stern and expectant.

“Are you going to ignore Daddy's texts and phone calls?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly, and Daddy leaned down to give him an answering kiss.

“That's my boy.” He stood up and grabbed Sherlock's dressing down from the back of the door, then tossed it onto the bed. “I'm going to get dressed, and then you are I are going to have some breakfast while Mummy gets some more sleep.”

Mary let out an appreciative groan, then turned back over and pulled the duvet to her chin. Sherlock slid out carefully as Daddy left the room. He put on his dressing gown and performed his morning rituals, the routine pushing him a bit older as he calculated the time John would need to leave the flat to get to work on time.

They still had twenty minutes, by Sherlock's own estimation, when he walked into the kitchen and found John sliding fried eggs and tomato onto plates for them.

“Sit down, love. I only have about fifteen minutes.”

“You have twenty,” Sherlock corrected him, sitting at the table and watching as John added toast to the meal.

John brought the plates and sat down as well. “I'm leaving a five minute buffer for whatever shenanigans you have planned for my departure.”

“John!” Mary frowned from the bedroom doorway. She held the baby in her arms, bouncing it gently, its needs apparently enough to pull her from the lie-in John had offered her.

“Reverse psychology,” Sherlock stated absently, ignoring Mary's entrance. “You're challenging me to behave when you leave for work this morning.”

John, of course, did not ignore Mary's entrance. He ignored Sherlock. He stood and greeted Mary with a kiss, then started to fawn over the baby, who was doing absolutely nothing of interest. “Does someone have a smile for me?” he cooed over her, then waited as Mary also encouraged the hapless child to smile. They continued in this vein until Sherlock jumped from his seat, toppling the chair behind him.

“I'm going to read my papers.”

“Eat, Sherlock.” John pointed him back to his chair. “You barely had a thing last night.”

Sherlock smiled tightly at the pair of them. “Mary gave me biscuits after you were asleep.”

It had the immediate effect Sherlock had been hoping for. John turned an accusatory eye on Mary, belatedly softening it when he became aware of Sherlock's scrutiny, and Mary looked back at him defensively. “He was hungry. He practically skipped dinner.”

“Because he threw it on the floor!”

“Water under the bridge.” Adjusting the baby, Mary leaned down to pick the chair up from the floor. “Just eat the eggs and tomato. If you don't want the toast, I'll eat it for you.”

The toast was suddenly Sherlock's favourite. He snatched it from his plate and crammed it into his mouth before Mary could take it from him. “I'm full.”

“What did Mummy just tell you?” John asked, taking Sherlock's arm and setting him back down in his chair. 

Sighing loudly at the demand, Sherlock picked up his fork. “Fine. I'll eat the eggs.”

“Without any attitude,” John added.

“It's impossible for me to have _no_ attitude, John. If you're trying to spe-”

“Sherlock, that's enough!” The sharp tone froze Sherlock in place. “Tell me what I meant.”

He looked up uncertainly, not wanting to misstep when John had already been pushed to his limits.

“Use that brilliant mind of yours to deduce what I was asking you to do,” John prodded.

Even Mary was watching him out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to concentrate on putting away the dishes. He stared at his eggs and grudgingly mumbled, “You wanted me to be more respectful.”

“Right, and can you do that?”

Sherlock nodded, subdued, and began to nudge the eggs around his plate with his fork. As he saw Daddy eyeing him, he took a small bite. They tasted like nothing, and Sherlock found it difficult to swallow over the rapidly growing lump in his throat, until Daddy reached out and rubbed small circles just below the nape of Sherlock's neck.

“There's a good boy.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock thought about all the ways that he had been anything but a good boy recently, arguing and disobeying, and generally being as difficult as possible to John and Mary. 

John threw him an encouraging, and far too knowing, smile. “Keep eating, love.”

Sherlock complied, soldiering on until the food began to taste like food and his plate was completely clear. “There,” he mumbled, not quite as respectfully as John probably wanted, but enough to get a one-armed hug from Mary.

“Thank you, baby. Are you still hungry?” she asked.

Biting his lip against a sharp remark, Sherlock shook his head.

“I think I'm done, too,” John said. “I'd better be off to the surgery.”

“No, you still have seven minutes!” Sherlock protested and reached over to grab Daddy's arm, such that Daddy's mug got jostled and coffee splashed all over his trousers.

Daddy swore and stood, and Sherlock jumped back, too. “I didn't mean to! I really didn't mean to this time!”

“I know, Sherlock. It was an accident,” Daddy told him, blotting at the spot with a serviette.

Mummy frowned at the stain. “It's too late, John. Just change your trousers.”

After a few more half-hearted attempts, John threw the serviette in the bin and left the kitchen. Sherlock listened to the cadence of his footsteps on the stairs, the clip-clop of irritation and anxiety sounding clearly across the flat. His heart echoed the same beat.

By the time Daddy came back down the stairs, Sherlock was ready. He threw himself towards Daddy's feet, wrapping his arms around Daddy's knees and his legs around Daddy's ankles. “Don't go, Daddy!”

Daddy rested a hand on the top of Sherlock's head and whispered to Mummy, “He's so young.”

“No, I'm not! Stay here, Daddy.” Sherlock hugged Daddy's leg tighter as they continued the conversation above him.

“I know. He was like this last night.” Mummy crouched down next to him, baby carefully balanced against her chest, and lay a hand on his cheek. “Sherlock, Daddy has to go to work, but he'll be back for dinner.”

“No!” He smacked her hand away from him, then gasped as Daddy grabbed his wrist.

“Sherlock!” Daddy's face was angrier than before, and Sherlock ducked his head to hide from it. “You do not smack Mummy.”

In response, Sherlock clutched Daddy tighter and ignored Mummy's gentle cajoling. “Stand up and give Daddy a kiss, baby.”

He shook his head and was suddenly shocked to find his firm grip bereft of Daddy's leg. He clutched at the air, then crumpled on his side at the unfairness of it all. “No!” he wailed again.

The baby let out an answering wail, and Mummy turned her attention from Sherlock to the miniature banshee in her arms. Sherlock redoubled his efforts until he could barely hear Mummy and Daddy's conversation over his own protestations.

“I don't want to leave you like this,” Daddy said to Mummy, and Sherlock writhed about on the floor, continuing to vocalise his displeasure, even though Daddy only cared about leaving Mummy and not Sherlock.

“We'll be fine,” Mummy said, even though Sherlock obviously wasn't fine and wasn't going to be fine if Daddy left them alone.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock chanted, arching his back so that only his shoulders and his heels touched the floor. “No, no, no!”

Daddy kissed Mummy and the baby goodbye, blissfully oblivious to Sherlock's dissent, and Sherlock kicked out, hoping that he might accidentally make contact with one of them..

“Goodbye, Sherlock. Have a good day,” Daddy said, leaving Sherlock just enough time for one last shouted “No!” before the door shut between them.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the floor crying. Mummy had given him a blanket, a small comfort after she'd left him to cry himself out, giving up far too easily when Sherlock had jerked from her consoling touch. He'd pulled it over his head in an effort to block out Mummy's sympathetic face, and it had eventually become damp with his tears. He sniffled into it as he waited for Mummy to come back to him.

At the sound of a laptop keyboard, Sherlock peeked out from the blanket, aghast to find that Mummy wasn't paying any attention to him at all. He drummed his heels on the floor in frustration.

“Sherlock, if you're going to kick, get on your bed or the sofa,” Mummy instructed him, without even looking up from the screen. “There's no need to disturb Mrs. Hudson.”

In fact, Sherlock had a need to disturb everyone around him, and he gave the floor another few good kicks before Mummy stood up and started toward him. He scurried to the sofa and curled on the side of it furthest from Mummy's stern face.

“You stay right on that spot. Is that clear?”

Grudgingly, he nodded, and as soon as she turned away, he gave the floor another two good stomps. Mummy turned back around to him, and Sherlock gasped, feeling the thrilling fear of defiance.

“Sherlock-” She started, suddenly cut off as the baby's sharp cry shot through the flat.

“Your baby's crying again,” Sherlock glowered at her.

“Yes, I hear her, but you've been-”

“She's going to disturb Mrs. Hudson!”

Mummy's lips pressed together, and Sherlock could see her weighing her options. He grabbed a throw pillow and held it tightly to his chest, an effective shield as he challenged her with his eyes. “Stay there,” she finally said, and began to walk toward the bedroom.

“Go away, Mummy!” he shouted, and threw the pillow at her.

The pillow hit its mark squarely, and Mummy spun back to him. Having used his pillow as a missile, Sherlock had nothing to hug for comfort, so he grabbed his own elbows and curled in on his stomach. The baby's screams increased in volume, and Mummy let out an frustrated hiss and turned back to the bedroom. It was a hollow victory for Sherlock.

He picked at the fabric of the sofa and looked longingly at the stack of papers across the room. After seeing Mummy's expression, though, he wasn't willing to risk disobeying her by going to read them. Instead, he sat alone with his misery, incapable of sustaining the defiance that had put him in his position.

As he heard footsteps, he buried his face in the sofa cushions. He didn't want to look at Mummy's angry face any more. She sat down beside him and lay a hand on his back.

“Come here, baby.”

Sherlock didn't move. After a few moments, she put her arms around him, and he fell into her, sniffling as softly as he could.

“Mummy's not going away, Sherlock, no matter how many pillows you throw at me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to embalmer56 for her patience and her great beta help.
> 
> This is a longer chapter, and the next one, the last one, will be quite short.

Mummy had been true to her word the entire morning, keeping Sherlock close at hand as she typed away at her keyboard. Even when the baby had fussed after lunch, Mummy had insisted that Sherlock's presence and good example would help her to calm down. In fact, the baby had grabbed at Sherlock's face and smiled. Mummy had been delighted by the exchange, certain that Sherlock had found himself a devoted follower in the infant. Sherlock, for his part, was sceptical as he wiped the feel of the baby's tiny fingers from his nose.

“She already knows that you're her family.” Mummy said to him, dangling a set of brightly coloured toy keys in front of the baby's rapt face.

“She smells off.”

Mummy set the keys down and threw him an amused stare. “Sherlock, I have personally seen you elbow deep in a pile of cow entrails.”

The cow entrails had been for a good reason, which Mummy well knew. Sherlock frowned at her and was about to tell her as much when her mobile rang.

“Oh, it's Daddy,” she told him, pulling the phone from her pocket.

Unable to contain his excitement, Sherlock snatched it from her hand before she could answer it. “Hi, Daddy!” 

“Hi, Sherlock. Have you been a good boy for Mummy?”

“Mm...” Sherlock considered the question in light of his behaviour that morning. “No.”

Daddy laughed. “What happened?”

It was one thing to admit that he had been naughty, but quite another to give Daddy a detailed account of said naughtiness. Sherlock wavered under the threat of Daddy's judgement.

“Never mind, love,” Daddy finally said. “I'll be back for dinner. Can you try to be a good boy for Mummy until then?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“That's my boy. I'll see you soon. Let me talk to Mummy now.”

Sherlock handed the phone to Mummy, who turned away from him, so that Sherlock had to deduce that she was rolling her eyes, rather than directly observe it.

“It was nothing, just a little strop,” she said, then let out a small, annoyed puff of air as she listened to his reply. “I'm not letting him get away with anything, John. We're fine. Go heal sick people.”

When Mummy set down the phone, Sherlock cuddled into her before she could pick up the baby again. She kissed his nose and cuddled him back, finally whispering, “I think it's time for a nap.”

Thinking on his promise to Daddy, Sherlock nodded his grudging assent.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the relentless pull of his clothing on his body. He writhed on the bed, then pulled the offending garments off, wrapping himself in a sheet before venturing off to the sitting room to see what he'd missed during his unconsciousness.

Mummy was sleeping, but the baby lay awake in the travel cot, fascinated by floating dust as it winked its way across the sunbeam streaming in from the window. Sherlock frowned, annoyed that Mummy wasn't awake to entertain him and that the baby seemed content to make do with dust motes in the absence of anything engaging.

Upon seeing him, the baby reached out and begin to laugh.

“Shh, don't wake Mummy!” he hissed at her, and she laughed again. He huffed menacingly. When she continued to coo at him, he grabbed the travel cot and dragged it back to his room. “You're too loud and annoying. You always bother Mummy, and then she's too tired to play with me.”

He set her on his bed and pulled out his violin, hoping to drown out her noise with a piece he'd been working on. He alternated between playing and scribbling down the music, correcting and revising, until over an hour had passed and he almost didn't notice Mummy in the doorway.

“I don't think I've heard that one before,” she commented, looking over to the baby, who'd fallen asleep in her cot.

“She's always too loud and annoying, so I wrote something to make her quiet,” Sherlock muttered into the sheet music, turning his back on Mummy's sudden delight.

“My sweet, wonderful boy.” She put an arm around him, then picked up the music and began to page through it. “You've been working on this for a while.”

Sherlock thought back over the past several months that he had been working on the composition, even as he'd been estranged from John and Mary. He had done what he could do, but it hadn't really come together until he'd seen the baby with his own eyes. He took the music back from Mummy and set it on the stand. “I was bored.”

He didn't say the obvious, that he had been bored while in hospital. Mary heard it, though, and her eyes travelled quickly to the scar on his chest. Her grip and breathing both tightened slightly.

“It doesn't hurt,” he told her. “I know why you did it. You were clever.”

“Not clever enough.”

It hadn't been enough. He'd been shot, and he'd had to shoot someone else in turn. It would have been better if Mummy had done it for him, if Sherlock had done as he'd been told and left it alone. He was glad, though, that he'd been in hospital when Mummy and Daddy had separated, especially when he suspected that it was his relentless pursuit of Magnussen that had precipitated it all. He sat on the bed, pulling her with him so that he could curl up against her, his sheet wrapped tightly around him.

“My little boy,” she reminded him. They sat there, breathing each other's air until the baby made a noise. Not a scream, but a little gurgle as she reached for the violin bow. Mummy kissed his forehead and smiled. “It sounds like Sarah wants to hear her song again.”

* * *

Sherlock was able to play the song several more times, and then he and Mummy struck a bargain that he would put on proper clothes if they could have a battle in the sitting room over the fate of the high seas. Mummy was quite the swordsman, managing a crippling blow that left Sherlock without the use of his right arm. Regardless, he continued valiantly until he heard the distinct jangle of John's keys in the lock downstairs.

“Daddy!” Sherlock dropped his newspaper sword and ran to the door, flinging it open against Mummy's objections and clambering down the stairs to reach the front door just as Daddy closed it behind him.

“Oi!” Daddy grunted when Sherlock threw his arms around him. 

“Sherlock!” Mummy scolded him from the landing, and Sherlock held tight to Daddy's torso. “You know better than to run out of the flat like that.”

Sherlock buried his face in Daddy's shirt. He'd not run out of the building, just down to the front door, and Daddy had been there. “I missed you, Daddy.”

“All right, let's get back to the flat, then,” Daddy said, cupping the back of Sherlock's head in his palm.

They climbed the stairs together, and Sherlock gave Mummy a hug and kiss when they reached the top, hoping to mitigate the effects of his disobedience. She forgave him easily and turned to kiss Daddy, too. 

“Everything all right?” Daddy asked her. “What's that in your hair?”

“It's nothing,” Mummy said. “I haven't had time for a shower yet today.”

Daddy looked over to Sherlock, as if it were Sherlock's fault that the baby had spit up into Mummy's hair, even though Sherlock had fetched kitchen paper for her and the baby had done nothing at all to help. The baby hadn't helped them to defend the high seas, either. Sherlock stepped over the detritus of their maritime battle to pick up his sword. “Mummy, don't forget about the fate of the high seas.”

“Mummy's going to take a shower,” Daddy said. “Let's pick up this rubbish.”

“No! The battle isn't won yet.”

Mummy picked up her sword and handed it to Daddy. “Daddy's a seasoned soldier, baby. I'm sure he can handle it while I wash my hair.”

In truth, Mummy was a better swordsman than Daddy, but Sherlock allowed Daddy to take command of Mummy's forces whilst she showered, even if Daddy _didn't_ know the difference between rubbish and a navy.

* * *

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson brought them up food, and left with the baby, cooing over her and making inane comments about John and Sherlock being useless. She had been overly sympathetic to Mummy about the mess and the part that Sherlock had played in it, an unfair position considering that Mummy had helped him to fold newspapers into boats for the flotilla that covered the sitting room floor. Mummy had not been wearing an incriminating paper hat, but the boats had obviously been created by two different people, and the creases on John's trousers made it clear to anyone with eyes that he had not been in the flat long enough to help. Sherlock kept his silence, though, enjoying his good luck that he'd have some time alone with Mummy and Daddy before he went to bed.

After Mummy finally told him that he'd eaten enough and released him from the table, Sherlock found Daddy in the sitting room, watching some inane singing contest on the telly. He tucked himself into the small space between John and the armchair, leaning his head on Daddy's shoulder.

“Well, hello, there.” Daddy wrapped his arms around him. “If you'd like a proper cuddle, let's move to the sofa.”

Turning off the telly, Daddy steered Sherlock to the sofa, where they cuddled together as promised.

“Daddy, read me a story,” Sherlock whispered.

“You've destroyed the papers. Are any of the books in here stories?”

“This one.” Sherlock leant from the sofa to pull a large hardback volume from under the coffee table.

Daddy took it from his hands and studied it dubiously. “'Applied Cryptography'? What happened to 'Peter Rabbit'?”

Crinkling his face at Daddy's mundane choice of reading material, Sherlock trod off to his room for the book. As he came back out, he saw Mummy already in her pyjamas picking the paper boats up from the floor.

“Baby, let's tidy up these papers before we get too sleepy.”

“No, Daddy's going to read me a story.”

“It'll only take a minute.”

“You do it.” At Mummy's frown, Sherlock hurried back to the sofa and into Daddy's arms.

“Sherlock, come back here,” Mummy ordered him, and Sherlock simply pushed the book into Daddy's hands.

Daddy stared down at him. “Sherlock, Mummy is calling you.”

“No, you said you would read me a story and cuddle me,” Sherlock whinged, shrinking further into Daddy as Mummy walked over to look him in the eyes.

“He will, baby. We just need to tidy up the sitting room first.”

Sherlock turned away from her and opened the book in Daddy's hands. Daddy opened his mouth to say something, but before any words could come out, Mummy had already closed the book. Sherlock opened it again and held it firmly in his hands, then Mummy took it from him completely and set it on the coffee table.

“Sherlock, no,” she said firmly.

“Mummy, no!” Sherlock shouted back at her, grabbing the book and smacking her soundly across the arm with it.

The three of them froze for a split second before John stood and grabbed Sherlock tightly at both shoulders. “What in the _hell_ has gotten into you?”

Sherlock said nothing, only glared at the book that had already fallen to the floor while his chest heaved with frustration.

“Did he hit you while I was at work?” Daddy demanded, his face only softening slightly as he turned to Mummy.

“No, he just... He threw a pillow at me.”

Daddy glared at Sherlock and increased the force with which he was pinned to the sofa. “So that's what you do, now. You throw things at Mummy and you hit her.” 

“It was just a pillow, John.” Mummy sounded tired, not cross as she should have been after being struck by a book. She sounded like she might be tired of Sherlock.

“So you let him get away with it.”

“It was five hours ago, and he's been fine since then.”

“Until just now, when he hit you.” Mummy's jaw clenched at Daddy's sharp words, and she looked away from both of them as Daddy continued to interrogate them. “Why are you letting him get away with this? Is it because of the baby?”

Mummy said nothing, and the shame of the truth filled Sherlock's chest. Tears pricked against his eyelids and he finally mumbled, “It's because she shot me.”

Mummy covered her face with her hands, and Sherlock continued miserably, “She shot me, and now she doesn't want to be my mummy any more.”

“That's not true, baby.” Mummy sat beside him and put her arms around him, and Sherlock let it happen, even though it didn't change anything.

“It is. You don't care about me any more. You only care about the baby.”

Just on cue, the baby began to cry from downstairs. Mary looked toward the door, then back at Sherlock, who was trying very hard not to want the hug that she was giving him.

“I'll get her,” John said, leaving Sherlock in Mary's embrace.

“Sherlock...” Mummy started.

“Go take care of your stupid baby,” he spat out, wanting more than anything to mean it.

“I'm taking care of you right now.”

“No! Go away!” He pushed futilely at her.

“Sherlock, stop it.”

“No!”

She grabbed his chin and pulled his face over to meet hers. “Mummy said 'stop'.”

Twisting in her grip, Sherlock suddenly found her finger across his mouth, and he bit down, hard. She gasped and pulled back, and they both looked down to see an imprint of his teeth clear across her knuckle.

Sherlock froze, but soon recovered enough to pull back from Mummy's grasp. She was too quick, though, and grabbed his arms, pulling him face to face with her. Sherlock tested her grip, but it didn't budge.

“You know better than to bite me,” she said, then released one of his arms, only to pull him to his feet with the other. With her right hand tightly gripping his left elbow, she led him out of the sitting room and onto the landing. When they reached the step, she gave him a pointed look and pulled down on his arm until he sat, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall to show how much he didn't care that he'd been sent to the staircase.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

He grudgingly lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“You do not bite people.”

In fact, Sherlock _did_ bite people, as had been made patently obvious by recent events. He didn't have time to tell Mummy that, though, as she quickly returned to the sitting room without him. He listened for sounds of activity, but it seemed as though Mummy was doing nothing more than resting on the sofa. He turned his attention to the downstairs flat, from which he could hear the murmured sounds of Daddy's conversation with Mrs. Hudson. They were probably talking about how cute the stupid baby was, with her stupid little smile, and her stupid little hands that reached for Sherlock's face when he held her.

Soon Daddy said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and began ascending the stairs, baby held close against his chest. His brow lifted slightly upon seeing Sherlock on the step, and Sherlock smiled innocently at him.

“Can I come help you with the baby?”

John's face pulled down and together in a way that told Sherlock everything before he spoke a word. “No, love. You can sit right there until Mummy says you can get up.”

Sherlock huffed and turned away, leaning as far as possible from Daddy's path, but Daddy still gave his shoulder a comforting pat as he passed. “You're mean, Daddy.”

Daddy tried to cover up his laugh with a cough, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and leaned against the wall. He tried to retreat into his mind palace, but without any pressing cases to keep him occupied, his attention quickly turned back to what Mummy and Daddy were doing without him. Finally, after a long few minutes, he heard Mummy approach.

His eyes flicked quickly to the finger that he'd bitten. It was red and a bit swollen, and without doubt would be bruised by morning. Her face wasn't angry though, or even impassive. She was staring at him with open affection as she crouched down in front of him. He felt small, so tiny that he could crawl right into Mummy's arms and sit there with the top of his head tucked snugly underneath her chin. Instead he scowled at his feet and picked at the seam of his trousers.

When Mummy laid a soft hand on his cheek, he tried to shrug it off.

“Sherlock,” she prodded gently. “Do you think you could kiss my finger better?”

He knew she was giving him a way to make amends, to close the matter and put it behind them forever, but he could only shake his head at the offer. He clenched his face against the emotions that buffeted about inside him and dedicated his entire being to their extinction.

“Oh, baby,” she said, tipping his head so that she could plant a kiss on the centre of his forehead.

The struggle overwhelmed him, and he knew he was losing ground against the insuperable wave of sentiment. He gulped back a few errant sobs, wondering whether she could ever love or trust him again after the admission he was about to make. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I wish you didn't have the baby.” 

“Oh, Sherlock, I know,” Mummy said, and Sherlock felt like the worst kind of person, the kind that would be angry at a little tiny baby just for being born. Mummy sat beside him and tucked his head into her neck so that she could run her fingernails lightly across his scalp. “My sweet, wonderful boy.”

Sherlock was anything but sweet and wonderful, and certainly not deserving of the kisses she was currently peppering his hair with. “I'm sorry,” he sniffled.

“I'm sorry, too. I haven't been a very good mummy to you recently.”

He shook his head into her shoulder, and she laughed. “What does that mean?”

“You're the best mummy. _My_ mummy.”

Mummy held him and let the warmth sink into them both. “Do you remember when you first met me, and all you wanted was for me to go away so that you and your daddy could be alone again?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. That had been a secret. Sherlock had never intended Mary to know how much he had wanted her out of their lives. “I didn't. You're my mummy.”

“I _am_ your mummy, and I know every time you fib,” she whispered into his ear. He squirmed in her grasp, hoping he hadn't earned more disapproval with his lie. “I love you so much, Sherlock, and now you have someone else to love you as well.”

Sherlock shook his head, though he wasn't sure why, and Mummy pulled back to look him straight in the eye. “She's already started to love you, you know, and I think you've started to love her, too.”

Sherlock didn't want it to be true, but he thought it might be. As irritating as she was, the little mewling creature held enough of John and Mary in her that she might just beat the odds and become one of the few bearable members of the human race. Sherlock could play a hand in that, if he were willing.

“Mummy, can I kiss your finger now?”

She held the injured finger up to his lips, and he kissed it carefully, making sure that he didn't hurt her any more than he already had.

“All better,” she smiled at him, and he smiled back, even though they both knew it wasn't true, at least not in the physical sense. 

John chose just that moment to reappear, softly bouncing the baby to an irregular rhythm.

“I changed her nappy, so she's all sorted.” He knelt beside Sherlock to lay a kiss to the crown of Sherlock's head, where Mummy's lips had been just moments before. “How about our little boy?”

Mary looked at Sherlock expectantly, and he shrugged at both of them.

“That good, eh?” John asked, standing to resume bouncing.

“Did you know Sherlock wrote Sarah a lullaby?” Mummy asked him. “Maybe he can play it for us.”

“You wrote the baby a song?”

“To make her shut up,” Sherlock explained quickly, before John could get any ideas.

Daddy just managed to keep from outright smiling at the rude comment. “Go get the violin, then. Let's hear it.”

Sherlock obeyed, and soon returned to find Mummy and Daddy on the sofa waiting for his performance. He played for them both, and even for the baby nestled in Daddy's arms, basking in Mummy and Daddy's approval as the bow sang over the strings of his violin. It wasn't one of his most sophisticated compositions, but it was sufficient for a baby, who certainly had no background in musical theory or any experience to compare it to. Sherlock finished to the familiar sound of Mummy and Daddy's applause and gave them a formal bow before carefully setting down the instrument.

“All right, come here, then,” Daddy said, then budged over to give Sherlock a space between them. 

Sherlock sat down right between Daddy and Mummy on the sofa and let their tacit praise wash over him.

“That, little boy, was brilliant,” Daddy whispered in his ear, and Mummy murmured her agreement.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at them. They always thought he was brilliant when he was at his most ordinary.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the last chapter! Thanks again to embalmer56 for the beta.

The case had been brilliant, meaning, of course, that the case had been an excellent showcase for Sherlock's own brilliance. It had also left John and Sherlock smeared with pesto sauce and canned herring, a convenient excuse to escape the mundane questioning that Lestrade often insisted upon. 

They entered the flat to find Mrs. Hudson drinking tea in the sitting room with Mary. She'd brought up chocolate biscuits, a welcome succour after denying himself for three days during the case. He snagged several before crossing to throw himself onto his armchair.

“Don't you dare get on that chair, Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson warned him. Shed been around much more often since John and Mary had moved back into Baker Street, or at least Sherlock had been noticing her more often, and she took her presence as an excuse to constantly natter on about what Sherlock should or should not be doing at any particular point in time.

He blithely continued on until Mary's sharp voice called out his name, freezing him in place and pushing him younger than he'd like to be in front of Mrs. Hudson. His face flushed at his unthinking obedience, but before he could recover, John was steering him toward the kitchen.

“We're just going to get cleaned up,” John called out before Sherlock had an opportunity to reclaim his dignity with a well placed deduction, and Sherlock was deftly manoeuvred to the loo, where Daddy began to draw a bath.

“She didn't kiss us hello,” he grumbled.

“You'll get plenty of kisses and cuddles once that fish smell is scrubbed off you.” Daddy began to strip Sherlock of his clothes, taking the biscuits and putting them next to the sink.

“It's not bath time,” Sherlock protested feebly, reaching for the biscuits. Mummy and Daddy had kept him on a fairly rigid schedule when there weren't any cases on. It was something of an inconvenience, but nothing Sherlock couldn't work around, and he found himself even more irritated when they deviated from their customary patterns.

“I know, love,” Daddy agreed, helping him into the tub. “We're going to have a bath before dinner tonight, and then an early bedtime with plenty of stories and cuddles.”

Sherlock wanted to argue, but the warm water always made him more amenable than he would like. He even let John gift him a biscuit that was already rightfully his and proceeded to nibble on it while John soaped up a flannel and ran it down his back. He could work with an early bedtime, especially if John and Mary were taking one as well.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the mess of files underneath him, searching for a discernible pattern in the surfeit of information. With his experiments relegated to the basement flat, and him unable to attend to them without leaving his assistant behind, he was torn between the two locations. He couldn't deny that it was nice having a laboratory of his own, especially one devoid of mindless chatter, but he sometimes missed having everything within arms' reach, not to mention that tea appeared in the basement much less frequently than it did in the sitting room.

A tiny, insistent voice drew him from his ruminations, and he looked over to see Sarah pointing at one of the files.

“Hmm, yes. Not the most informative, but I suppose I could have missed something.” He took it from the pile and began to study it again, a soil report from one of the locations he'd deemed of interest. Unable to divine any meaning from it, he returned it to its place and turned his attention to the sound of John's bare feet on the floor behind him.

“Sherlock, the case is over. You're supposed to be sleeping.”

“Different case,” he explained in as few words as possible, hoping to end the conversation sooner.

“Why is Sarah out of her cot?”

“Helping.” 

“Help-” John stalked over and picked up his daughter, effectively interrupting Sherlock's work, as much as Sherlock tried to ignore him. “Do you do this every night?”

“Of course not. Sometimes we just play.”

“Play?”

“Yes, John, play.” He finally turned up from his work to give John an incredulous look. “I thought you understood how babies worked.”

“I thought she was sleeping through the night.”

“Yes, you've never been very observant.”

Frowning, John cradled the baby closer, as if to shield her from Sherlock's disrespect. “Does Mary know you've been doing this?”

“Irrelevant.”

John fixed one of his Daddy stares on him, eliciting a small twinge in Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock still wasn't sure how big he had to be for Daddy to lose his ability to set him on the staircase, but John had yet to fail in disciplining him. Sherlock scrambled to defend his behaviour.

“She was crucial to helping me solve the Wilson case last month, when neither you nor Mary were willing to stay awake to help.”

“She's ten months old!”

“Yes, and she's already a serviceable sounding board for my deductions. Much like you, but without the ridiculous statements you're prone to make.” The baby weighed in with a light gurgle. “Hm? Oh, yes.”

Sherlock handed her a photograph, which John immediately pulled from her hands in shock.

“Jesus, Sherlock! That's a severed finger. Don't give her that.”

“Responding to the noises she makes will build her communications skills.”

“Give her a bloody dummy, then, not crime scene photos.”

“That's from the Wilson case. It's already solved.”

With a deep breath, John shifted the baby in his arms. “Sherlock, Sarah's been helping you for a while, yeah?”

“I suppose.”

“And yet never in the day, when Mummy and Daddy are awake. Why is that?”

Well into deducing where the conversation was going, Sherlock knew better than to answer. He was shrinking by the second, easy prey to John's firm tone.

“I think it's because you knew Mummy and Daddy wouldn't be happy with Sarah getting involved in your cases.”

“She's my assistant,” he mumbled.

“Not any more. I don't want her exposed to any more cases.”

“She likes them!”

Before the argument could escalate, Mary appeared in the doorway. “What's going on?”

“Sherlock has decided to enlist the baby to help with cases.”

“Oh, that's-” Mary's face brightened for a second before she saw her husband's disapproval. “Oh, we don't like that.”

“Of course we don't like that! Look what she had in her mouth.” He held out the photo to Mary, who studied it before looking up to Sherlock, brow furrowed.

“Oh, the Wilson case. I thought you already solved this one.”

“That's not the point!” John snatched the photo back only to toss it on the table. “I don't want our baby girl looking at severed body parts.”

Mary seemed amused by the entire controversy, which was only serving to exacerbate John's irritation. Sherlock wavered between trying to placate him or enjoying the spectacle of his temper. Meanwhile, Sarah began to wriggle in his grasp, little hands stretching out into the air. “Look, John. She's reaching for it,” Sherlock cried out.

“She just wants down.”

John obliged her, setting her on the floor where she could pull herself up to the coffee table. She amused herself smacking at the tabletop and making unintelligible noises as her parents continued to discuss the propriety of her participation in Sherlock's work.

“She likes the photos,” Sherlock pointed out, grabbing a rather innocuous one and holding it just out of her reach. “Sarah, show Daddy that he's wrong.”

As John sighed out his annoyance, Sarah smiled at Sherlock and began to reach for the photograph. Sherlock was about to turn to John in triumph when Sarah let go of the table and took two shaky steps toward him. He grabbed her before she toppled to the ground.

“She's walking! Oh my God, my baby took her first steps,” Mary cried out, and knelt down on the floor to join them.

Having reached her destination, Sarah wasn't walking any more. Instead, she stood in Sherlock's hands, gurgling up at him on her fat, wobbly legs. He handed her the photo as a reward for her hard work.

“Give me that!” John took the photo and knelt a few steps away. “Walk to Daddy, Sarah.”

She peered over at him, then grabbed at Sherlock's lip.

“Put her back at the table,” John told him. 

Sherlock did so, and John continued to call for her. She turned to him, then back to Sherlock, as if to ask for his advice.

“Go to Daddy,” he encouraged her. It was apparently enough to make up her mind, because she let go of the table and toddled right back to Sherlock. Sherlock took her into his lap with a kiss. “See? She wants to solve cases with me.”

Mummy put her arms around them both. “She's not allowed up in the middle of the night, and neither are you.”

“But when she gets up, she gets cuddles, and when I get up, I get in trouble.”

“You're not in trouble, baby. You just need to go back to sleep.”

“But I want cuddles,” he said, buoyed by the good cheer of everyone in the room, generally unheard of at half three in the morning.

Mummy and Daddy shared a promising look, and Sherlock pressed on.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

It was a sore point. Sherlock had often crawled up into John's bed in the middle of the night before Mary had arrived. 

Mummy kissed the top of his head. “How about if Mummy and Daddy cuddle in your bed for a while?”

* * *

Sherlock lay with his head on Daddy's shoulder, intending to make it as difficult as possible for Daddy to extricate himself from the cuddle. Mummy was pressed up behind him with her arm reaching over to rest on Sarah's back as the baby dozed on Daddy's chest.

It was perfect enough that Sherlock felt himself teetering on the edge of vulnerability, and it was easy to say things he otherwise wouldn't.

“Don't leave me again, John.”

Daddy's arm pulled Sherlock closer in, close enough for Daddy to lay a kiss on his forehead. “I never left you, Sherlock. You ran away.”

Sherlock accepted the kiss, and he contemplated accepting the explanation, as he contemplated why it was so difficult just to let John love him. His uncharacteristic reticence earned him another kiss, and Daddy turned toward him as much as he could in their cramped quarters.

“I've got you back now, and I'm not letting you go again.”

Mummy stroked her agreement out on Sherlock's arm. “You belong here, baby, with your family.”

“And when Sarah gets older?”

When Mummy's arm stopped, Sherlock wondered whether he'd finally found the limits of their sufferance, but she was only adjusting herself to squeeze him tighter against her. “You two are going to be double trouble. I can see it, already.”

The thought warmed him: getting into trouble, getting out of trouble, and with a built in partner in crime. He wondered how old a person needed to be to learn to pick a lock. If he learned anything from _Oliver Twist_ , it was that even very small children could pick pockets, and often fit into spaces much too tight for a grown man. He leaned in to give Sarah a kiss on her soft baby hair, captivated by the potential encased in her tiny frame.

“Our whole family is cuddled together,” he sighed.

He wasn't tired, but Daddy was scratching his head in a way that always sent him to sleep. He and Mummy were a strange combination of indulgent and firm, and Sherlock sank into it just as he sank into the soft mattress.


End file.
